


Scraps

by BanrionCeallach



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, Short fic collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanrionCeallach/pseuds/BanrionCeallach
Summary: Short fics/Not quite drabbles of an Angel and a Demon.





	1. Candles

After the not-pocalypse Crowley removes any and all candles he can find from the bookshop, as well as any boxes of matches. It's possible he's a mite obsessive about it, but Aziraphale has other things on his mind, what with adjusting to not having heaven watching him anymore and doesn't notice.

And then one night there’s a power cut and Aziraphale, instead of just fixing the power cut, mutters "oh sugar, I can't see a blessed thing," and miracles a lit candle in an old-fashioned candle holder out of habit and aesthetic.

He’s holding it for approximately a tenth of a second before Crowley snatches it from him and drops it into a bucket of sand that’s suddenly appeared next to them, before the demon snaps his fingers to create an electric torch.

Aziraphale stares at him for a long moment before Crowley awkwardly croaks, “open flames a-are dangerous, angel,” and just stands there clutching the torch with a white-knuckled grip.

It takes another fraction of a second for Aziraphale’s brain to make the connection and then his expression softens. “Oh my dear boy,” he exclaims quietly. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think.”

As Crowley tries and fails to get more words out Aziraphale steps forward and pulls him into a hug. “No more candles, my dear,” the angel says as the demon buries his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder and heaves a choking sob. “I promise.”


	2. Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People think Aziraphale is soft

Aziraphale is soft. He loves savouring his food, loves the feel of fine clothes against his skin. He loves literature, he loves the theatre, he deeply appreciates the many beautiful musical works of humanity. He hates fighting, hates even the thought of physical violence.

Throughout the thousands of years he's been on earth, many people have recognised his inherent softness.

Where they make their mistake is assuming that soft equals _weak_.

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden was born with a flaming sword in his hand. He was born knowing how to use any variant on the design.

Crowley knew this. Or at least, he thought he knew this. He's thinking now, as he watches the angel effortlessly dance circles around his dueling opponent, that he never really _knew_ properly. Not until now.

Aziraphale's opponent, a large unpleasant nobleman who did not know when to take no for an answer, has the expression of someone rapidly realising that they've made a serious misjudgment. He'd laughed when the quiet scholarly Mr. Fell had angrily challenged him.

He wasn't laughing now.

Aziraphale lunges suddenly and the man's sword goes flying out of his hand. A second later the tip of Aziraphale's weapon is pressed against his opponent's throat.

Crowley's own throat feels suddenly tight. He swallows awkwardly and tries to ignore a vision of himself in that position, the angel forcing his chin up with the tip of a sword. _No_ he scolds himself inwardly, trying to will his blood into not going south. _This is not the time. This is really not the time._

"And now," Aziraphale is saying pleasantly, when Crowley manages to pay attention again, "you will apologise to my friend."

Crowley chokes on his own breath, his brain temporarily ceasing to operate as the angel inclines his head meaningfully in Crowley's direction. All the times his angel has protested that they're not friends, that they're barely more than acquaintances. And now at last . . .

The demon barely hears the resulting stammering apology. He's too busy trying to keep his fluttering heart inside his chest.

_My friend._


	3. Breath

Sometimes Aziraphale will just smile at him and Crowley will forget how to breathe.

Of course, being a demon, he doesn’t actually need to breathe, but he tends to let his body do it anyway because of the way not doing so invariably upsets the mortals.

But it’s different when Aziraphale smiles just so. The breath whooshes out of Crowley, his chest tightening almost painfully. If he forgets himself far enough he even starts to cough and splutter.

Crowley had heard a line in countless human songs - ‘you take my breath away’. He didn’t know if the humans felt the sensation as literally as he did when they looked at someone they loved. He hoped not. He wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone else.


	4. No hard feelings

“No hard feelings,” said Gabriel amiably, as his sword pierced Aziraphale’s back. Golden blood bloomed on the blond angel’s shirt as he collapsed to his knees.

“Really, Aziraphale,” Gabriel continued, his tone still light and cheerful while he pulled the sword back and Aziraphale toppled over, choking on his own blood. “I mean it. I’m not angry with you anymore. Just disappointed.”

The archangel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to clean the golden blood from his weapon. “Now,” he said conversationally to Aziraphale, while the other struggled to breathe, “time to go take care of your pet demon.”

Gabriel turned and started to walk away, whistling cheerfully.

He managed four steps before a hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. A second later a bloody fist smashed into his face, knocking the archangel to the ground.

The Archangel Gabriel stared up at Aziraphale, eyes widening in surprise as the mortal wound he’d dealt the blond angel seemed to slowly vanish and Aziraphale stood straighter and ceased to gasp for breath.

“What- How?” he stammered.

“That sword is a weapon crafted personally by the Almighty for you,” Aziraphale said quietly. “It may injure, but she would never have let it be able to kill. Don’t you remember? So many Fell in the first war. But no-one ever actually died for all the grievous wounds that were inflicted. Didn’t you ever wonder why that was?”

Gabriel had not.

“Only Hellfire will kill an Angel, just as only Holy Water will destroy a Demon,” Aziraphale continued. He held out his hand. Gabriel stared, waiting for the trick.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Aziraphale muttered. He grabbed Gabriel’s arm and pulled him to his feet, the golden rivulets still sluggishly bleeding from Aziraphale staining the archangel’s well-tailored suit. “Go home Gabriel. Find something else to occupy yourself. And for pity’s sake don’t try to attack Crowley. Much as I love him, I am not blind to his tendency to be overly protective. He’s already angry about your attempt to execute me in Heaven. If he hears about this you’ll have hellfire thrown in your face before you can say ‘extraordinary rendition’. And as you know, Holy water holds no terrors for him. Now go away, there’s a good chap.”

Gabriel looked at Aziraphale as if he’d never seen him before. “What are you? You- what _are_ you?

“You know,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “I’m not really sure anymore. Still, it’ll be fun finding out, won’t it? Now please, go away.”

Glancing over his shoulder with every step, Gabriel went.


	5. Hands

It was ridiculous that just holding hands could do this to him. He was a demon, the instigator of Original Sin! And yet, every time Aziraphale held his hand he was overwhelmed. The complicated combination of delight, excitement and love, _so, so much love,_ made him tremble like a human teenager on their very first date. His legs, only marginally under his control at the best of times, went weak at the knees.

And then Aziraphale would squeeze his hand comfortingly and smile openly at him, _because they were on their own side now, now and always,_ and it became a thousand times more intense. His breath would catch in his throat and assorted incoherent sounds would stutter out of his mouth. The flush would start at his chest where his demonic heart was beating wildly, like that of an enthusiastic virgin on their wedding night, and then would rise slowly to his neck and chin until it reached his face proper and he could feel himself _burning, burning, my angel I love you so. _

It was worse each time, the feeling of it. He felt like he was on fire from the inside out. There had been a spark in his heart for centuries, but now he was dealing with a bonfire that flared and roared when Aziraphale _held his hand._

He wanted to do other things. To wrap his arms around his angel, to sit in his soft, generous lap and kiss him sweetly.

He was half-afraid that doing so might cause his body to spontaneously combust.

What he needed, he decided, was practice. Exposure therapy, wasn’t that what the humans called it?

He needed to hold Aziraphale’s hand more. Just for a little bit, every day, to get used to it. And when he could hold hands with his angel without feeling like he was going to discorporate on the spot, he could move on the other things and apply the same principle. That was logical wasn’t it? _One kiss every day to get used to the feeling_.

He just needed to explain this to Aziraphale in way that didn’t expose him as pathetically love sick.

He could do that. Easy.

Right?


	6. Gifted and Talented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory 'Crowley was Raphael' scrap.

He was angel once. But that was a long time ago and there was no going back. Even if he could have, he didn’t want to.

The truth was there had been something wrong with him from the start. He hadn’t _fit, _not like the others. The position he’d been given, the responsibilities he had, the blessed _pedestal_ She’d put him on . . .

He was special, She'd told him. He had potential.

In his secret heart of hearts he’d hated it. It had felt, every second of every blessed day, as if he was a fraud, unsuited for his position, and that at any moment She’d find out.

Maybe the others She’d put on the same pedestal had felt the same, the sheer weight of Expectation dragging at them the way it dragged at him. The pressure to live up to their _potential._

(He hated that word.)

If they had, they’d never showed it.

And then the Fall had happened. He’d plummeted, screaming, into a pool of sulphur and his new lord and master had pulled him out by his burning wings.

And once again, there had been the Expectation.

Get up there and make some trouble. Make it bad.

So he had. Original Sin really had been very impressive. It had gained him a reputation.

It had also saddled him with the Expectations of Hell, which he discovered were so much worse than the expectations of Heaven. And so he'd dealt with those expectations. For six millennia, throughout human history, through out the terrible things he’d taken credit for that humanity had invented themselves, even as he was drunkenly vomiting in disgust somewhere, his only comfort the soft angel who held his hair out of the way and rubbed his back until the shivering stopped.

It was an unspeakable relief, when, after the world ended, the only Expectations he had to deal with were Aziraphale’s.

(Aziraphale never expected him to be anything but himself.)


	7. Angel

There is an angel waiting at Crowley’s front door.

It is not Aziraphale.

“Uh, hi,” says the angel, awkwardly holding up his hands. “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you were expecting to see but I really need you to not panic, OK?”

“What,” Crowley manages. Because he can’t be seeing what his eyes insist he’s seeing. It is completely, one hundred percent, impossible.

“Look,” says the angel, who is wearing white robes with gold trim, “this was really not my idea. I haven’t a clue how I got to this world, I just know that you can help me get back.”

“Help you,” Crowley repeats, while his brain tries to make sense of the angel. Distantly, he notes the slim body, the starfire-red hair. The golden eyes.

“Yes!” says the angel enthusiastically. “If you could, that’d be great, seriously. I need to get home before Azirafell starts panicking and does something . . . unwise.”

“Aziraphale??”

“Um no,” the angel shakes his head slightly. “Azira – fell,” he enunciates carefully. “He, well, he’s a demon. But quite nice, really! To me, anyway.”

“Of course he is,” Crowley mutters. There’s an alternate universe backwards version of him, so of course there’s one of his angel. Sure. Why not?

The angel in front of him looks at him hopefully. “So, will you help?”

“Sure,” Crowley agrees. “If only to get rid of you before my reputation is completely destroyed. Don’t want to imagine what Above and Below will start thinking if they catch a glimpse of you.” He thinks for a moment. _Blast. I’m going to have to involve Aziraphale._

He informs the angel of this and then bluntly orders him in no uncertain terms not to tell Aziraphale his name- “Because we haven’t got time for the kind of ruckus that would cause.”

“I can’t lie to him,” the angel protests half-heartedly. “That would be Wrong.”

“Look,” Crowley snarls, “I have spent the last six-thousand years trying to forget that bloody name. It’s not who I am anymore and I’m never going to be that again. Never. No matter how badly some people might want me to be. So, as far as Aziraphale is concerned, you are just a minor stellar engineer who got lucky and didn’t ask the wrong question at the wrong time. Is that clear?”

The Archangel Raphael’s shoulders droop and he nods solemnly. “Very well.”

“And for Someone’s sake, change into something less . . . angel-like. You look like you got lost halfway to a nativity play.”

“Oh, do you have nativity plays here too? I love them!”

“Urghhhhhhhhhhh.”


	8. Angel part 2

“Oh for-“ Crowley bites the curse short and steps on the Bentley’s accelerator. “When I said change out of the angel get-up, I didn’t mean copy exactly what I’m wearing.”

Raphael looks down at himself. “It’s not exactly what you’re wearing,” he points out. “It’s white.”

“White skinny jeans!” Crowley mourns. “If anyone I know sees you, my image will be_ ruined_. You look like a member of a boyband.”

“Hey now!” Raphael actually sounds insulted. “That’s uncalled for.”

"Demon," Crowley points out. He takes vindictive pleasure in the way Raphael flinches. Stupid perfect angelic tosser.

By the time the Bentley pulls up outside the bookshop, Crowley’s insides are squirming with anxiety. Never in a million years would he have thought he’d have to introduce Aziraphale to, well, to himself. More to the point, to his angelic self.

The nasty little voice that lives in the back of his head is in full swing. _He’ll see,_ it whispers,_ he’ll see Raphael and then he’ll know, really know, what a mess you are. How unworthy you are of him. He’ll be able to compare you to the Archangel. Side by side. He’ll see how broken, how low you really are. How high you fell from when you questioned Her. And once Raphael is gone he’ll resent being left with you. The inferior copy. The snake._

“Angel!” Crowley calls out loudly, trying to drown out the self-loathing as he strides into the bookshop, Raphael at his heels. “Are you here? We’ve got a problem!”

Crowley expects the moment of shock on Aziraphale’s face. He expects the bewildered look from Crowley to Raphael and back again.

What he is not expecting, once his other self’s sudden appearance in their world had been explained, is to be cut off by Aziraphale casually turning to the second redhead and asking, “Can I assume you’re still going by Raphael, my dear?”

The bottom seems to drop out of Crowley’s stomach while his doppleganger confirms that Aziraphale is correct. “You . . . knew?” Crowley croaks, his mouth going dry with horror. The little voice comes back, louder than ever. _HE KNOWS, _it shrieks. _He’s always known. All this time, he’s known how much of a failure you are. No wonder he always draws back from you!_

Aziraphale looks at him, vaguely puzzled by his tone. “Well, of course I do. It’s not exactly a secret.” He pauses and his brow wrinkles. “Is it?”

“Oh. No. No, why would it be?!” Crowley waves his arms frantically, completely taken aback by the casualness with which Aziraphale is discussing his past as an archangel. “Obviously! No one’s called me that in six thousand years! Michael was face to face with me – sort of, anyway- and she didn’t recognise me. But, you know, fine! It’s fine!”

Aziraphale steps towards him, hands outstretched. “Oh, I’ve upset you. I’m so sorry, dearest.”

Some of the panicked energy seeps out of Crowley’s movements as Aziraphale takes his hand. “You never said you knew,” he mutters wretchedly, his shoulders slumping. “All this time. I thought, I dunno. . . You never said. Why- why did you never say?”

“Well, I didn’t want to be rude, darling,” Aziraphale says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You told me what your name was. At Eden, remember? And at Golgotha, when you changed it again. Insisting on one you don’t want to use anymore would have been the height of bad manners.”

“B-bad manners?” Crowley stutters. He can’t be hearing what he thinks he’s hearing.

“Oh absolutely,” says Aziraphale emphatically. “The last thing I want is to be like young Lucy’s parents.” Crowley blinks in mixed shock and puzzlement and the angel elaborates. “You remember, she was in here last weekend. You gave her some tips on where to get a proper dress fitting. I had to have quite a strong word with her parents. ‘Oh you can’t stop using the name we gave you, it was a precious gift!’ he mimics. “Ridiculous! As if no one ever returned an ill-fitting jumper after the holidays before!”

“Uhhh.”

“If you ever change your mind,” Aziraphale says earnestly, “do tell me at once. I don’t want to be calling you the wrong thing and engaging in very hurtful behaviour.”

“I- uh, that’s not going to a problem, angel,” Crowley assures him, slightly dizzy with turn this conversation has taken. “Got the name I want right now. Doubt I’ll change it again.”

Aziraphale’s face breaks into a slightly relieved smile. “Oh good. I will admit, changing from Crowley after all these centuries would take a while to get used to.” He smiles softly. “You know that I love you, whatever your name is, don’t you?”

Crowley looks away from that loving smile, his cheeks burning and his heart a great deal lighter than it was a few moments ago. Over Aziraphale’s shoulder, he can see the not-damned version of him is smiling in a gooey sort of way at his angel. Crowley glares venomously at him. There is precisely one red-headed immortal being allowed to smile at Aziraphale like that and it is _not_ the Archangel fucking Raphael.

Raphael suddenly takes extreme interest in a nearby pile of books and Crowley relaxes slightly. But he can still see a faint smile, a suggestion that the corners of Raphael’s mouth are about to tug upwards, the angelic bastard that he is.

“Now,” Aziraphale says firmly, turning towards the other angel, “I think we’d best get on with finding a way to send you home.”


	9. Harry Omens Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This scrap is a 'possible future' fic based on my main work 'Harry Omens'.
> 
> Harry Omens is a mix of TV ineffable husbands, but Book GO & HP timeline (a.k.a the notpocalypse happened in 1990 or thereabouts but Az& Crow look like their tv selves and the Swap happened) and may be summarised as 'For personal reasons, Crowley & Aziraphale steal Harry Potter. Certain people in the wizarding world panic.'
> 
> Also half based on the 'good omens lockdown' audio.

**2020**

“And then!” said Crowley’s voice over the phone, “your father sent the intruders off with cake!”

“Really?” asked Harry, watching the kettle boil. The phone had rang right as he had decided to make a cup of tea. “The mob guys?”

“Well no,” Crowley admitted, “couple of stupid kids with nothing to do now the schools are closed. But it’s the look of the thing!”

“Oh?”

“I terrify intruders! Someone invades our home, I make them wet their pants and fear for their immortal souls! I do not send them off with cakes!”

“You didn’t,” Harry pointed out. “Your husband did.”

“I am a demon, you know.” Crowley’s voice had developed a tinge of ‘sulking toddler’.

“Yes dad.”

“I’m very evil.”

“Yes dad.”

“I influenced you towards evil with my demonic wiles when you were but an impressionable child.”

“Yes dad,” said Harry patiently. “We stuck coins to the footpath.”

“Right! It was great! You were a right little terror in the making!”

“Mm hm,” Harry agreed. He opened a cupboard and fished out the sugar bowl. “Real dark lord material.”

He held his phone away from his ear as Crowley let out a particularly loud snort. “I still can’t believe,” said the demon, “that anyone could have looked at twelve-year-old you and thought ‘that’s the Heir of Slytherin, that is’. Humans are idiots!”

“Mm hm.”

“Not to mention tarring an entire group full of kids as untrustworthy by default is just-“

“Yes dad,” said Harry hurriedly. “I know. It’s different now.”

“Yes, well. Anyway,” said Crowley, as Harry finished pouring himself a cup, “speaking of little terrors, how are the kids doing?”

“Normal really,” said Harry with a sigh. “Hogwarts was already isolated anyway. They’ve had no cases yet. James and Tony* are fine. Lily’s finding it the most stressful. Not the greatest thing to happen your first year, a global pandemic.”

“No,” agreed Crowley. “Should just be normal stuff. Like a teacher possessed by an undead dark lord.”

“Daaad.”

“Or a basilisk roaming around eating students,” said Crowley brightly.

“All right, all right,” said Harry. “Lily’s not me though.”

“No,” said his dad quietly, and there was silence as they shared a moment of relief that Harry’s children would never have a childhood remotely like his.

“Dad,” said Harry when the silence on Crowley’s end continued. “You still there?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. Just thinking.”

“Thinking what?” said Harry suspiciously.

“Well,” said Crowley, “that I might pay Hogwarts a short visit. Haven’t seen the place in a while.”

“Didn’t we just talk about the global pandemic and how there’s a country-wide lockdown?”

“That doesn’t apply to Lily’s pet snake, though.”

“She doesn’t have a pet snake,” said Harry, but he’d already given up.

“Funny thing,” said Crowley and Harry could almost see him grinning, “I’m pretty sure she’s going to get one from you by post tomorrow morning.”

“Is she really.”

“Yep.”

“Fine,” said Harry in resignation. “But I’m going to tell her to name it Mr. Snuggles.”

There was a brief pause.

“Evil,” said Crowley eventually. “Petty. That’s my boy.”

“Thanks.”

\------

(*In another universe Anthony Ezra Potter would have the unfortunate luck to be named after a manipulative headmaster and a man who was sour enough to bully an eleven-year-old based on his resemblance to his dead father.)


End file.
